Blackjack
by Kuria Dalmatia
Summary: Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail. ADULT CONTENT. REPOSTED with new chapter breaks. Hotch-Reid friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

Word Count: ~...

ARCHIVING: My LJ and FFNet... anyone else? Please ask first.

Feedback always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own _Criminal Minds. _Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.

VERSION: Original concept January 2009, long before "To Hell... and Back" aired. Originally posted September 2009

TIMELINES/SPOILERS: Season 4 after "Pleasure is My Business" but before "Omnivore", slight AU. Direct quotes from "Extreme Aggressor", "L.D.S.K.", "Fisher King Part 1", "Aftermath", "No Way Out 2: The Evilution of Frank", and references to second season's "Revelations" and fourth season's "Brothers in Arms".

COMMENTS: Thanks to Pabzi for the encouragement and lady_of_scarlet for the beta. Any mistakes left are mine.

For those who might cry "OOC" for Hotch, well, everyone has a bad day. Given the events in Season 4—starting with the death of Kate Joyner quickly followed by Hotch's temporary hearing loss and "not recognizing" the UnSubs in "Paradise" and "Pleasure is My Business"—this story takes in to account those issues. Plus, sometimes the hardest thing is admitting that you did something wrong.

This is independent from the "Triggers and Ties" series.

/***/

_**"Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame."**_

—_**Benjamin Franklin**_

/***/

Aaron doesn't remember the exact case they had just finished, city they had just returned from or UnSub that they had dealt with. It is the stressor that blocks these details out. It is a stressor that should never have been one because he _knows_ better. Still, it is _that_ stressor—one that he can't even remember now—that caused him to target Reid simply because the younger man had been the only person in the SUV on the return trip from airstrip. Oh. And Reid had been in yet another perilous situation. This time, he had earned a rifle butt to the kidneys.

"What the hell is it with you getting the snot kicked out of you?" Aaron remembers snapping as he pulled up to Reid's apartment building. "Or held hostage? Or... Christ! Being kidnapped? Ever since Elle left, if there's something bad that's going to happen to the team, it happens to you! I bet we can make a drinking game out of it!"

He remembers looking over, seeing the wounded look that briefly flashed in Reid's eyes. Aaron remembers watching Reid's entire demeanor change, from slouching and relaxed to vigilant and guarded.

Aaron remembers Reid getting out of the SUV, retrieving his hard-sided suitcase from the back—and _really_, did anyone besides Reid haul those around anymore?—and slamming the door closed. He remembers Reid spinning on his heels and walking away.

He remembers that for the following week, Reid had peppered the team with statistics on abductions. Aaron remembers him citing everything from recovery percentages to psychological breakdowns to average time a person could "hold it" before losing control of the bladder or bowels.

Aaron remembers the last comment causing Morgan to stare at Reid before asking cautiously, "What are you driving at, kid?" and knowing that Morgan really didn't want an answer but _someone_ had to ask.

He remembers Reid lifting his chin and saying a little too loudly, "You know, all those times I've been kidnapped or held hostage? Well, I've never pissed or shit myself."

He remembers the shock of Reid being crass, the stunned expressions of Morgan and Prentiss. He remembers Morgan rallying a half-hearted, "Well. Ah. Um. Good for you, Reid," while sounding uneasy and worried.

He remembers Rossi whispering to him, "Why can't Reid just let it go?" He remembers being unable to tell Rossi that the discussion was entirely _his_ fault.

Aaron remembers not apologizing despite numerous opportunities to do so, especially when Reid lingered just a little too long just a few too many times. He remembers not knowing what to say or how to explain it, unable to open up just a little to admit his mistake.

He wonders if Reid still holds it against him.

God, he hopes not.

"Do you know what time it is?" a voice hisses close to his ear.

Aaron wants to say, "Of course, I don't. You ambushed me outside my house on Friday at midnight. You knocked me unconscious and then blindfolded me with duct tape. You've taken me to a location where there is no real ambient noise except for water in the pipes, no real change in temperatures to indicate night and day. You've bound me to a chair, my wrists behind me and my ankles to the chair legs. The chair is obviously bolted to the floor."

But Aaron can't. Not with the dirty towel stuffed into his mouth and held in place by a thick strip of cloth.

Christ, his head hurts.

Aaron knows that the UnSub is male. The UnSub's words are enunciated as if trying to suppress a rural drawl, trying to sound menacing but not quite succeeding. Nervous because he's probably surprised he's pulled off the kidnapping. This must be his first, going for the verbal threats because he hasn't thought beyond sequestering his victim.

The UnSub is probably intelligent, though. Most are; it's one of the first things Aaron highlights when giving a profile. Kidnapping in the middle of the night gives the UnSub at least four to six hours before the victim may be reported missing. It was Friday when Aaron had been abducted, which could give the UnSub an additional two days unless a case came up.

To hell with the first weekend off in five weeks, Aaron fervently hopes JJ calls him.

After all, JJ would call Dave and say that she couldn't reach Aaron via his cell or home number. Dave would offer to stop by his house. Dave would know the minute he pulled up that something was wrong. He would call Garcia and ask for a trace on Aaron's phone if JJ hadn't already. Garcia would search and...

Aaron doesn't remember what happened to his phone, although he does know that his two guns have been removed. He wonders where the phone fell off. Maybe the UnSub kept it as a trophy. Maybe the UnSub left it on.

Everyone makes mistakes. That's how most killers are caught.

Aaron knows it probably won't be that easy. It never is.

"It's time for _this_," the UnSub says.

Aaron automatically tenses. He waits. He hears the UnSub moving in front of him and feels fingers yanking at his belt buckle. He runs through the categories of abductors, their specific behavior patterns, and which one this UnSub would fall into. His thoughts are interrupted when he feels his belt pulled roughly out of the loops, the buckle hitting the side of his knee.

Strange that the UnSub didn't strip Aaron before tying him to the chair. Clothing provides a shield, a sense of security and identity for the victim. To be forced naked makes the victim more vulnerable, dehumanizing them in the eyes of the UnSub.

He hears the sharp crack of leather and unexpected fear suddenly pours through him. Aaron knows that sound. Knows it all too well. His father always doubled up the belt before hitting him. His father always snapped the leather before telling Aaron to stand in the corner with his palms flat against the wall and his trousers pulled down to mid-thigh. His father always allowed him to keep his underpants on.

The first hit is to Aaron's right arm. The second to his left. The blows sting but are not especially hard. Twenty-one total, alternating sides. The UnSub makes a high-pitched whine each time he hits.

Aaron knows right then that this is just the first of many, that the subsequent ones will be more vicious and that the weapon types used will escalate.

His team will find him. He knows that.

They've got Reid, after all.

/***/


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

Aaron tries. He goes through all the tricks he's learned from long stakeouts, lengthy hostage negotiations, and when the small town they needed to be at was a two-hour drive from the nearest airport after he has stupidly chugged five cups of coffee on the flight there. The steps are easy: squeezing the muscles. Sitting upright, not slouching. Fidgeting a little, but not excessively. Focusing on anything _but_ that.

Yet during the third beating—this time starring an electrical cord judging by the sharp, precise sting—Aaron's bladder gives out. It's not a little tinkle either. It's the full-force, _I haven't peed in forever_ type that lasts from Hit Number Nine to Hit Number Fourteen. It soaks his crotch, the back of his thighs, and runs down his right leg. He wonders how much his sock absorbs.

Will the UnSub notice? Is this part of the UnSub's plan? After all, loss of bladder control is a form of humiliation and one often used in interrogations. One of the childhood rights of passage revolves around toilet training. He wonders what facts Reid knows about it.

Reid.

Spencer _"All those times, I've never pissed or shit myself"_ Reid.

Aaron stops himself. Self-recrimination won't do him a damn bit of good. _Focus_, he tells himself. _Focus and you'll survive._

He wishes he could talk. It's his most effective weapon against the UnSub, always has been. If he didn't have the cloth stuffed in his mouth—Aaron swears he'll never have another piece of chamois in his home ever again—he knows he could get the UnSub to make a mistake.

First, he would learn the UnSub's name. Praise him for the kidnapping. After all, Aaron is a veteran agent, physically fit, and deals with dangerous situations on a daily basis. The UnSub has done what the guy who was killing cops in Phoenix couldn't do: take him down.

"You picked a Friday—actually early Saturday morning—to strike, knowing that it wouldn't be until Monday that someone would be looking for me," he would say. "You know I live alone, that I'm a workaholic without a social life. You took me down efficiently. I didn't have a chance to react, to fight back, or to leave my colleagues some clue that I have been abducted. You kept me unconscious on the way here, so that I wouldn't have a sense of location or how long it's been."

What Aaron would say next would depend on how the UnSub reacts. He doubts he could say what was really on his mind because it would definitely antagonize the UnSub. He wants to say mockingly: "A belt? Seriously? My old man used to beat the hell out of me. I couldn't sit for days. You? You hit... you hit like a nine-year old girl."

Reid. Reid's words. Reid's comments after Aaron had apologized for verbally berating and kicking him during the stand off with Phillip Dowd. He wonders if Reid had been lying but realizes, no... Reid doesn't just throw out comments like that. He uses them to make points, the _I'm just as fucked up as you are_ kind. Except Reid wouldn't use the word "fuck".

Aaron snorts and shakes his head.

The cord is suddenly wrapped around Aaron's neck, pulling him back. Instead of panicking, Aaron congratulates himself on identifying the weapon. The pressure feels like he's knotted his tie too tightly, not like the UnSub is trying to cut off his oxygen.

The UnSub snarls, "I can kill you!"

"Then why don't you?" Aaron wants to ask. Still, he doesn't struggle. He reasons that playing into the UnSub's need to feel dominant should hopefully calm him down. After all, the UnSub did say "can kill", not "will kill", which indicates a lack of commitment on his part.

As quickly as the ligature is around his neck, it's gone. Then, the UnSub starts whipping Aaron's arms again. This time, the hits sting more, as if Aaron's insubordination fuels the UnSub's rage.

_Good_, Aaron tells himself. _He'll make a mistake. Good_.

/***/


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

Aaron is hungry. His head feels like a marching band has paraded through it quite a few times. His mouth is dry. His tongue is sticking to the fibers of the towel. He is thirsty. He wants a gallon of water even if it means pissing himself again. His arms ache. His knuckles pop when he flexes his hands to keep the circulation going. His ass and legs hurt. The only thing keeping the bindings from cutting his ankles are his socks, one of which is annoyingly wet.

He focuses on those to keep his mind off of the Bad Things.

What is bad is that very time he shifts, he can smell the stench of urine. His boxers are wet and sticking to his skin, as is his pant leg. His right sock is soaked to the toes meaning another pair of shoes ruined.

Damn. He really likes this particular pair of shoes.

Even worse is the constant itch that has taken up residence over his right eye. Waggling his eyebrows barely relieves it. He tries not to think about his eyebrows stuck to the tape, how it is going to hurt like hell when the EMTs pull it from his face. At least the UnSub didn't wrap the tape all the way around his head.

However, the worst thing is the pressure in his bowels. He specifically doesn't think about the microwaved beans and rice dinner he had scarfed down Friday at 7 p.m. or the burrito he had wolfed down at 9:30 p.m. to get through that final push of paperwork. He'd taken them from Rossi's stash of "unhealthy items kept in the BAU kitchen freezer just because".

Of all the things he could have eaten before getting kidnapped, he had picked the ones most likely to give him gas and diarrhea.

Idiot.

He should have raided Reid's snack drawer, which always had an intriguing selection of Rice Krispie treats, Pop Tarts, chocolate Chex Mix, and chewy granola squares. Those certainly beat Morgan's uninspired protein bars and Prentiss's cashew butter and graham crackers. JJ and Garcia always have snacks in the fridge, the proper healthy ones separated in mini-bags and corralled in a larger Ziploc.

Garcia usually tells him there are leftovers when she leaves for the evening; they both know they are extras for him because God knows, his eating habits are worse than Reid's nowadays. They never say that part aloud. He supposes he should compliment her on her homemade hummus. It's super garlicky yet wonderfully lemony, far better than what he can get at the grocery store.

Aaron hears the UnSub shuffle down the steps.

_Focus_, he orders himself. _FOCUS_.

They are wood stairs, specifically. Aaron figured he is in a basement after the first beating, when he could hear footsteps above him. So far, he has only heard one set but he hasn't ruled out the possibility of a second UnSub.

The Dominant. The one calling the shots. Makes sense since the one who has been visiting Aaron doesn't seem to know quite what to do with him. Based on the blows that Aaron has endured so far, the Subordinate couldn't have been strong enough to take Aaron down, bind him, put him in the trunk, and drag him down the stairs. Also Aaron knows he'd hurt much worse if he'd been dragged or thrown down steps.

Theoretically.

"It's time for _this_," the UnSub declares, just like he's done every time, followed by a hollered, "Hi-YA!"

_You've got to be kidding me!_ Aaron thinks as he hears a low whistle of the weapon being swung. The blow to his right arm _hurts_ and he twists.

"Take that!"

_Just great. He's got confidence now, but... only a little._ Although the UnSub has graduated to a more effective weapon, it's not a traditional one and he's not wielding it nearly as hard as he could. The exclamation indicates that it's a martial arts weapon of sorts. Katana, maybe? No. Those have a metal blade. This is made of wood, but isn't solid.

Aaron isn't a fan of kung fu movies, although he's watched quite a few since the flicks are frequently on late night TV and since his divorce, he's embarked on the lovely lifestyle of an insomniac. He supposes _Shogun Assassin_ is his favorite for the sheer fact that the baby cart is armed to the hilt and the arterial spray is just all kinds of _wrong_.

Still, Reid would know the weapon. Reid would know that traditional judo—what Morgan has his black belt in—does not teach the use weapons. However, judo has its origin in jiu jitsu, which does.

The second and third hits are just as painful as the first. The fourth blow—his upper right calf just below the knee, a new target—causes him to scream into the gag.

_Only seventeen to go_, Aaron tells himself and then the Stray Cat's "Sexy and Seventeen" plays in his head. It makes him want to laugh but it also strengthens his resolve. _Just seventeen. You can take it. You're SSA Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner... You saved Reid from Hankel. Reid will save you. It's the way of things._

It's the last thing he thinks before the pain takes over.

/***/


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

The smell is atrocious. As Aaron regains consciousness, he knows he lost control and that he's sitting in his own excrement. Humiliation slams into his chest.

"You know, all those the times I've been kidnapped or held hostage? Well, I've never pissed or shit myself."

_God, Spencer, I am so sorry_.

It would be easy to drown in pain. Aaron doesn't allow himself to. Sure, he's been assaulted, but Spencer had been beaten _and_ drugged yet still kept his wits. Spencer still outsmarted Hankel.

Faith. Maybe that's what kept Spencer going. Not faith in God—which is always a touchy subject with any member of the team—but faith in the team. Faith in his friends. Faith that they would figure out the clues.

But Aaron didn't leave clues. None that he is aware of.

Footsteps on the stairs. Aaron snaps his head up, wondering what the weapon du jour will be. Instead, he hears the UnSub inhale sharply. Then, "Jesus! What the fuck?" The accent becomes more pronounced as the UnSub shouts, "Aw, hell!"

Clearly, Aaron's mess isn't part of the plan. He supposes it never is. He can't remember the number of crime scenes where excrement has been obviously removed. Aaron supposes soiled sheets are never part of the fantasy for most UnSubs. Thank God they never dealt with one who had a scat fetish.

"Damn it! Damn it!" the UnSub's voice rises in pitch.

If only Aaron could speak to him. He knows he could talk his way out of it, to calm the UnSub down.

There's a sharp click; the new sound unnerves Aaron. Sounds like a switchblade.

"This isn't right! This isn't right!"

The words confirm Aaron's belief that he is the UnSub's first victim. Quickly, he puts together the rest of the profile. White male. Twenty to twenty-five years old. Slight build. Someone who doesn't stand out in a crowd necessarily. Teased mercilessly when he was a teenager. Biological father was an authority who wore a suit, such as a government official, college professor, stock broker, banker. Father abandoned him when he was young and refused any contact.

_Just like..._ his mind begins, but it's quickly countered by, _Shut up! The profile! Focus on the profile!_

The UnSub has sought authority figures throughout his life—teachers, religious leaders, coaches, volunteer mentors... coworkers—but none live up to the Ideal Father Figure. Mother is weak, subservient to men and her son repeats the pattern. There's a trigger in there somewhere, one that caused the UnSub to go down this path. UnSub wants to assert his authority but doesn't know how. Doesn't know.

Doesn't know "how to be the man". A man. A killer. A torturer. If this UnSub doesn't know how, the second one does. The Father Figure.

Even if there is no second UnSub, the first UnSub is smart. Aaron knows he'll figure it out quick. Not book learning.

Instinct.

Instinct is a hell of a thing.

So is a psychotic break.

After all, he's shredding Aaron's dress shirt and tee with the blade, shrieking as he's doing it. "No, no, no!"

_Just cut the gag,_ Aaron thinks._ We can talk through this. I know you. You don't have to do this. Just cut the gag._

But the UnSub doesn't.

The blade nicks Aaron's chest, shoulders, and arms. The shirt proves too much for the UnSub, who opts to leave his shirt and tee bunched at his elbows. Aaron's trousers and boxers are next and he's surprised that they are completely removed. Judging from the gagging sounds the UnSub is making, Aaron knows that his mess is really, really nasty. Like Jack's bout of 24-hour diarrhea in the diaper nasty.

Aaron makes a mental note to thank Dave for having cheap Mexican in the freezer instead of a proper Italian meal. He wonders if Dave will choke on his coffee when he tells him.

The UnSub then smacks Aaron barehanded, but compared to the fourth beating, the slaps are just little stings.

Bee stings.

Aaron isn't allergic to bees. He's stung twenty-one times.

He hears the rattle of a bucket handle, a few unidentifiable thuds, the creak of a faucet, and then water running. Aaron remembers Spencer rambling once about the average gallons of water per minute from a household spigot.

Unfortunately, the water flow drowns out any other sounds. Aaron listens carefully, trying to decipher the UnSub's movements. Obviously, he's going to clean up the mess, but Aaron isn't sure on the method.

That's when a bunch of water hits him squarely in the chest. Hot water. Very hot water, mixed with bleach. A lot of bleach.

The water stings but quickly sluices off him. The powerful smell sears Aaron's nostrils as he yells—fuck, he can now feel every single one of those damn cuts and he bets there are twenty-one of them—and struggles in his bonds. He wills himself not to puke because that means choking on his own vomit.

The only people able to heroically die that way are talented musicians. Hendrix. Dorsey. Bonham. Spencer can probably name at least ten more.

Aaron won't be in the list. He refuses to be.

The motherfucker douses him twenty-one times.

_Keep it coming with the patterns, bastard_, Aaron thinks viciously. _Because that's what my team... EXACTLY what Spencer needs to hunt you down. _

Aaron is sure of it.

/***/


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

Beating Number Six—which happens in a shorter interval than the ones before, Aaron is positive—is the same weapon as Number Five: a martial arts training stick. Wood, not metal. The blows aren't necessarily hard, but still hurt like hell. The UnSub alternates between hitting his shoulders, arms, shins, calves, but only hits across his lap three times, the weapon's tip landing just inches from his crotch.

Aaron wonders why that isn't targeted. He is moderately endowed and isn't necessarily embarrassed by his nakedness. The genitals are often seen as a sign of power.

Silvers of _something_ have broken off on his bare skin, embedding themselves like splinters.

_Think. The UnSub isn't a sexual sadist. Check. Those shards? Think. They need the information right away_, Aaron orders himself. _No time for forensics_. Although Garcia will rush it through for him.

Garcia. He needs to send her more flowers. Definitely. More flowers. Maybe the Arrangement of the Month. He recalls how thrilled she had been when he had sent them on Jason's behalf.

Bamboo. The weapon is made of bamboo.

Footsteps. Aaron jerks his head up, but it's not as crisp, not as authoritative now. He's weak. Dehydrated.

Water.

God, he needs water. Obscure facts float in his head as he tries to calculate how long he can survive without a source of water. The bleach water earlier slashed a little on his face, but not into the gag. The UnSub must have been careful. At least the bleach smell isn't as strong now.

_Water,_ he reminds himself. He's not sweating, so he's not losing water volume that way. Aaron knows he's truly fucked up when he wishes there was some way to drink his own piss.

The footsteps are closer.

He moans. He thrashes weakly. He gave up the stolid, tough guy persona during beating Number Three.

"It's time for _this_," the UnSub says.

A cold blade is pressed against Aaron's throat. He immediately stops struggling.

"I don't want you to talk," the UnSub hisses.

Aaron nods once, very slowly. He feels the gag being pulled down and settling around his neck. He resists the urge to push out the towel with his tongue.

"One sound? I'll cut you."

Aaron nods again. The chamois is pulled from his mouth. He takes several deep breaths, despite the pain radiating from his ribs. Somehow, he manages to keep quiet.

_Hotch, we need more time, _someone whispers, but the voice isn't his and it isn't the UnSub's._ Play to his empathy. You've done it before. I remember. Just because you don't have a voice and you can't see doesn't mean you can't influence his behavior. You remember Phillip Dowd. I followed your lead. I looked away when I was supposed to, acted meek because it was expected. Why do you think you kicked me so many times? You didn't realize I'd figured out your plan. I knew back then. Just as I know right now._

Aaron wants to laugh because clearly, he's gone insane if he's hearing Spencer's voice in his head. He doesn't. Instead, he licks his lips, unsurprised that they are dry, cracked and bloody.

The blade presses against his throat again. "I know you're thirsty. Don't lie."

Aaron nods.

"You make one sound. You spill one drop. I'll take it away."

Aaron nods. He feels the threads of a water bottle pressed against his bottom lip.

Spencer's voice is soft, encouraging. _Twenty-one. Take twenty-one drinks in intervals of ones, threes and sevens. Keep the portions small._

Aaron finds himself relaxing as he focuses on the voice. Sure, he knows he's hallucinating, but at least it's Spencer who is talking to him instead of Haley, his mother, or any number of criminals (dead or alive) that Aaron has taken down.

_You don't know how large the water bottle is,_ Spencer continues. Y_ou can make the number. You'll know how full the bottle is by the angle when it's tilted and the amount of water against your lips. Don't panic. You know how to do this. I have faith in you. Here's the pattern…_

Aaron obeys. He forces himself not to be greedy, not to gulp or make a sound as he sips the water. The knife wiggles against his throat as the UnSub makes a high-pitched whine.

_He's counting,_ Spencer whispers. _Good. There you go. Only thirteen more to go. _

Aaron follows the pattern that Spencer chants in his head. When he gets to eighteen, he knows that there's enough water to do three large gulps at the end. The UnSub assists him by tipping the bottle all the way so that Aaron can finish.

_Hah! Twenty-one!_ Aaron thinks. Not only has Aaron successfully taken twenty-one drinks of water, he's also swallowed the same number of times. It takes every ounce of willpower not to grin stupidly at his accomplishment but then overwhelming gratitude suddenly sweeps over him. This is just what he needs to survive. If it hadn't been for Spencer coaching him—

The words slip out before he can stop them. "Thank you."

The UnSub shrieks, the blade moves away.

Aaron clamps his mouth shut, hunches forward as best he can within the bindings and hangs his head. He hopes to God the penitent body language is enough.

It isn't.

The first blow from the bamboo stick hits Aaron's right shoulder. He cries out because the son of a bitch nailed one of the bruises. He bites his lips together, not wanting to antagonize the UnSub even more. He tastes the blood as his teeth dig in.

Aaron is only conscious for the first ten blows.

/***/


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

Aaron tastes the gag before he's fully awake. Disappointment hammers through him right before an ungodly amount of pain.

_I tried_, he thinks miserably and wonders why his lashes are now wet. He then chides himself for allowing the tears, knowing he's wasting the little water he's been given.

_You had to thank him,_ Spencer says reasonably. _You followed his rules, Hotch. You took a chance._

_I made a mistake!_ Aaron fires back angrily.

_You were trying to get him to see you as a person, not as a…_

_Piñata. I'm a goddamned piñata._

Spencer snorts sympathetically. _You need to be ready for the next time the UnSub comes down here. You know he's going to make a mistake. You're going to be ready to take advantage of it. _There is a pause before Spencer begins, _Did you know that the Mexican piñata used for Catholic Christmas celebrations has seven stars to represent the seven deadly sins? _

Aaron nods, comforted by the sound of Spencer's voice as he drones on about paper-mâché.

When he hears the footsteps on the stairs, his stomach turns and panic wells up.

_Hotch, focus on my voice_, Spencer tells him firmly. _Focus._ Then, he continues on about how to make paper-mâché.

"It's time for _this_," the UnSub says.

The bamboo cracks against Aaron's skin. He screams.

Spencer keeps talking to him.

It's the only thing that keeps Aaron sane.

/***/


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

Aaron decides to count that last beating as beating Number Eight. No. Wait... It is Number Nine. His count is off by one because he didn't include being doused with the buckets of water. Okay. Wait. There was the second time with the electrical cord.

_That last one was actually Number Fifteen_, Spencer corrects. _The first two were with the belt, the next two were with the electrical cord, Number Five was the bamboo, Six the switchblade cutting your clothing off, Seven the switchblade nicking you, Eight the slaps, Nine the bleach water, Ten and Eleven the bamboo. Twelve, the sips of water. Thirteen, the number of times you swallowed while drinking the water and, yes, he was totally counting. Fourteen and Fifteen, bamboo._

Aaron hopes the UnSub has the same count. He doesn't know if he'll survive to Number Twenty-One.

_You will_, Spencer says adamantly. He obviously omits the part about just what the UnSub will do when he hits Twenty-One.

Blackjack.

Jack.

_You won't abandon him,_ Spencer shouts. _You won't._

_I can't,_ Aaron whispers back.

_Good._ Spencer sounds pleased before turning serious again. _I know the hits are painful, but he's not exerting a lot of force. Maybe because he can't. If he could... well... you'd be in worse shape. But I believe that the UnSub doesn't have the upper body strength. You're right. He's young. Younger than me. _

Mucus cakes Aaron's nostrils and makes his breathing more labored. It's a bitch to clear his throat. His right arm steadily throbs and he can't move his fingers. He's not sure if it's because his shoulder is dislocated or his arm is broken because the UnSub decided to focus on his right side that last time.

_You're left-handed_, Spencer reminds him calmly. _Hotch, we just need more time. Think. THINK. I knew exactly when those cameras were on when Tobias held me hostage. Why do you think I called you a narcissist? I knew you would understand. We have history, Hotch. History. Now, I need you to give us a clue._

But he can't. The UnSub made sure of it.

Aaron shivers because he's cold, realizing that his shirts have been removed. He's just wearing his shoes and socks.

_At least you're still wearing a suit_, Spencer declares with amusement. _Er. Your BIRTHDAY suit! _

_Not funny, Spencer,_ Aaron shoots back.

But Spencer has already changed topics. _Wonder why the UnSub insisted on your right side? In fact, why does he always start with your right side?_

_He's left-handed_, he answers without hesitation. _The UnSub comes from a strict Roman Catholic family, probably ones who don't recognize Vatican II and who still attend Mass in Latin. It wasn't until the late 1960's that the stigma of being left-handed began dying down. Those who were left-handed were considered agents of the Devil. Still, if you attended a parochial school, you were strongly encouraged to be right-handed._ He doesn't add just how strongly.

_Hotch?_ Spencer asks worriedly.

_I hate wooden rulers_, Aaron states flatly and tries to stuff the images of his mother and Sister Gregory back into the little box from whence they came.

Thankfully, Spencer is silent.

/***/


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

A noise startles Aaron awake. Pain sears through him and he moans pathetically.

_I'm so sorry, Spencer_.

_You can apologize to me in person,_ Spencer tells him sternly. _But now? I need you to focus. _Spencer pauses. _Think, Hotch. Think. Listen. Focus._

Aaron rallies himself. Blind and mute didn't mean that he is stupid. Spencer told him to listen, so he strains to hear.

**There.** Footsteps above. Same stride as the UnSub. Diagonally left to right. Thirteen steps. Pause. Door open. Two steps. Door close. Pause. Door open. Two steps. Creaking stair. Metal scraping on metal, the same sound shower curtain hooks make on a rod. Door close. Twelve steps down the stairs.

Aaron fights the blossoming panic as he realizes that there's a secret entrance to the basement. He needs to focus. Focus. Basement has plumbing, a utility sink, drainage. Those will show up on floor plans.

Maybe. But will the search team think to look for a hidden basement? If the teams are split into several to cover a large area, the BAU group may not be with that team. Will his team think to search the property records? Hell, will his team even find him?

_Stop doubting them_, he mentally chides and finds himself disappointed that Spencer hasn't chimed in yet. He's grown used to the company and the oddball facts. He had no clue that Spencer knew that much about SWAT tactics, federal law, or the Boston Red Sox. Spencer's dissertation of Camden Yard as the beginning of the retro ballpark renaissance had been especially entertaining. Maybe he and Spencer should go to an Orioles game sometime.

Christ, he really, _really_ needs food.

He hears squeaking and the slap of plastic hitting the floor, but it doesn't sound like a plastic sheet or buckets... Tubing, perhaps?

_Don't fucking panic!_ He shouts to himself. _Focus. Focus._

If the UnSub counts the dousing as Number Nine, then maybe the UnSub has decided that he can reach his overall goal of twenty-one sessions by employing water. Aaron is sure as hell not up to twenty-one buckets of very hot bleach water, but the alternative is either the bamboo stick or a new weapon. Like a shovel handle. Baseball bat. Axe.

He doesn't want to think about Spencer's discourse on just how much abuse the body can take or the very real possibility of blood clots that could lead to a stroke.

Aaron hears the faucet being turned on, but not the rush of water into the basin.

Plastic. Hose. Okay.

Son of a bitch is going to spray him down. Aaron remembers the water hose fights he used to have with Sean when they were little. Even then, he had excellent aim. Still, a blast of water on bare skin isn't going to be pleasant.

Aaron purposefully slows his breathing, trying not to be pissed that Spencer has decided to shut up. He could really use an exposition on the origins of rubber hoses in the United States and why they are usually green.

Hell, he's even ready to have a debate on the significance of twenty-one to the UnSub. Twenty-one is a prime number. In the Book of Numbers, twenty-one refers to God destroying the land and saving those who are worthy. He hopes Spencer will be impressed by his logic.

"You smell!" the UnSub declares, accent heavier than times before.

"No shit, Sherlock," Aaron says into the gag.

The first blast of water hits him on the right shoulder, the pain making him grunt. The next is to the left, and the third is to his belly. Aaron wonders how many of the remaining eighteen blasts will be to the balls.

_Where the hell are you, Spencer?_

/***/


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings by a weakling UnSub, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

_No inter-team profiling_, Aaron tiredly snaps after the younger man explains exactly when the relationship with Haley started going downhill. It's especially grating because Spencer had pinpointed the moment back when Aaron first joined the FBI, not when he became part of the BAU. It is something Aaron had always known, but he wonders how the hell _Spencer_ could have known.

Spencer sighs but continues undeterred. _But you __**are**__ in the statistical majority._

_Do you mind?_

_We have to talk about something,_ Spencer replies. _And we're totally not talking about me. For once. Which is nice, actually. _

_I do __**not**__ want to talk about how Jack was a failed attempt to save my marriage_.

_I never said that, _he protests.

_Or how I made him a victim_.

_Now just stop it right there, Hotch!_ Spencer spits out. _You did __**not**__ make him a victim. You are doing everything you can to be a good father. You're making an effort to be there._

_I'm never there!_ Aaron shouts back.

_What is this? The Aaron Hotchner Martyr Game?_ Spencer sounds disgusted. _Let me find a hammer and nails so you can crucify yourself properly! You need to get the hell over it, Aaron. Stop blaming yourself! _

_I keep missing things, Spencer,_ Aaron finds himself pleading softly, the admission raw in his belly._ Small things. People are dead because of me._

_You're allowed to make mistakes, _Spencer fires back.

_No. I can't. Don't you see?_

_What I see is a man punishing himself for being human. A man pushing himself so hard to be so perfect all the time, that it's killing him. Your father did the same thing, Aaron, and look what it got him. _

_Not the same, Spencer._

_Bullshit. _

_Since when do you curse?_

_Since you decided to be a stubborn ass._

_I'm always a stubborn ass._

_No shit, but you're being more stubborn than usual. And, if you __**really**__ wanted to think about it, Aaron, you know the only reason why this weedy little UnSub took you down is because you were too goddamn exhausted to pay attention to your surroundings._

The accusation stung. Aaron hung his head. _I know._

_Then stop this. Get yourself back together. There's no way in hell I'm going to let you die down here._

A single set of footsteps charges down the stairs. The UnSub sounds gleeful, "It's time for _this__!_"

_I'm right here, Aaron_, Spencer whispers fiercely. _I'm not going anywhere_.

All Aaron can think is: Number Seventeen.

/***/


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

The pounding footsteps on the floorboards above wake Aaron up. He quickly counts the different types of steps, listens to where they hit on the floorboards. All over the place.

It's a raid. Whoever is up there—local police, SWAT, _please God the BAU_—are fanning out. He hears slams of doors.

Aaron begins struggling in earnest, shouting despite the gag, making noise so they will hear him. He realizes that he is, for the most part, dry. And cold. Damn. He is cold.

He doubles his efforts when he hears the charge down the stairs, but it's like it's next door. Water is running somewhere in the house, the drainage loud in the non-insulated basement. The UnSub is using it as a distraction so the team can't hear him.

"Damn it!" Morgan yells, although his tone is muffled. Morgan is clearly pissed, sounding like he wants to put someone's head on stick. As quickly as Aaron's spirit soars from elation, it comes crashing down when he hears the death knell of "Clear!"

_Don't you remember? Separate entrance. Separate basement. _

Aaron yells as loud as he can. Morgan is smart. He's got to see that the room is smaller than the upstairs, that the footprint doesn't match the floor plan. Finally, someone shuts off the water and the pipe quiet down. Aaron pauses to catch his breath but there is no sound.

_Use different pitches, like an ambulance_, Spencer instructs. Aaron does, remembering their discussion about the Doppler effect as they rode together to the hospital after that horrible night in Georgia.

Aaron doesn't give a shit if he sounds like a wounded cat; he's determined that someone will hear him. He puts all his effort into it, because he knows it's the one shot he has.

Aaron's not sure how long he wails, but he stops to catch his breath and listen. The silence is crushing, worse than any wound he's ever endured. He tries to rally, tries to convince himself that all his team needs is a heat-sensor and they'd be able to find him.

Yet... even Spencer has suddenly abandoned him. Bastard.

The earlier adrenaline wears off, rewarding him with excruciating leg cramps, throbbing head, and numbness in his hands. Dizziness hits next as do waves of nausea. Aaron swallows rapidly while trying to slow his breathing down. He has survived twenty-one buckets of bleach water and twenty-one hose blasts – three of which nailed him in the groin - without puking. There's no way he's going to puke now.

_Focus. Focus._ Yet even his internal voice sounds haggard.

**There.** Footsteps again. Several pairs. At least four. Aaron mentally kicks himself into gear. Spencer's voice is suddenly in his ear. _Wait. Wait until they're closer. Remember, thirteen steps from the entrance to the first door_.

But Aaron can't keep track of all the footsteps. They are swarming above him again. He can't keep them straight. _You didn't panic before, _Spencer tells him sternly, _so don't panic now!_

Then... he hears a door slowly open in the direction of where the UnSub comes down the stairs.

He musters everything he can and begins to thrash and shout as loud as he can. He even tries Morse code out of sheer desperation. It certainly beats sounding like a cat.

Between the third dit and first dah of his second set, he hears a door being kicked in. He renews his efforts, tears springing to his eyes and relief coursing through his veins.

Morgan.

Maybe they should turn _that_ into a drinking game. Take a shot every time Morgan breaks down a door. Take a shot every time Morgan does a flying tackle to take a suspect down. Take a shot every time Morgan's speech pattern slips into gangsta.

_Oh, we are __**so **__doing that, _Spencer chuckles gleefully.

Fast, strong footfalls charge down the stairs and skid to a stop.

"He's here! HERE!" Morgan shouts. "We got him! Get the EMTs down here now!" Aaron hears hard steps on the floor and feels fingers on his gag. "Hotch, it's Morgan. Calm down. _Calm down. _You gotta stop twisting around like that. That's it. That's right. We're gonna get you out of here," Morgan assures him as the gag is worked loose. "C'mon, Hotch, stay with me. You did good, man. You did good."

The cloth falls to his shoulders. Aaron tries to push he wadded cloth out of his mouth and suddenly, it's yanked out. He takes several deep breaths even though his lungs hurt like hell. He can't speak, his voice oddly frozen.

"I'm gonna cut you free," Morgan tells him and continues to talk as bindings are tugged and pulled. "I can't take that tape off your face until the EMTs get down here, okay?" He uses that calming "don't spook the horses" tone that suddenly Aaron can't stand. He needs normal. He needs facts and figures and ramblings and the only person who isn't going to fall into the "talking the injured hostage down" rhetoric is...

"Reid." He throat is raw, hoarse. Aaron's not quite sure how loud his shout is, but Morgan jumps all the same. Suddenly, his arms are free and he begins swinging with his left, grabbing the air, and whacking Morgan a few times. "Reid? Reid?" when there is no answer, he tries to shout, "Spencer!" but the name catches in his throat and he's not quite sure how he sounds.

Morgan cups his chin, places a warm hand on the side of his neck and gives him a gentle shake. "Reid's fine, Hotch. He's standing ten paces away to your diagonal left. Embrose didn't hurt him, Hotch. No matter what Embrose told you, Reid isn't hurt." He shakes Aaron again before calling out with exasperation, "Jesus, kid, get your skinny ass the hell over here before he decks me! Hotch, Reid is okay. He's right here. Right here. Where the hell are the goddamn EMTs?"

Aaron wildly paws the air until his fingers brush across fabric. He grabs and tugs until he can wrap his hand around a sinewy arm. He yanks hard, eliciting a yelp. A perfectly wonderful Spencer yelp.

"Reid's right here, Hotch. You're holding on to him. He's right here. He's not hurt. Embrose didn't hurt him, Hotch. He's the one who told us to come back." Morgan pauses and then growls, "Damn it, Reid, _talk _to him."

But the relief coursing through Aaron is too great, too overwhelming.

"Thank God," Aaron says right before passing out.

_**/***/ /***/**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

_"Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen..." the UnSub's voice is that grating high-pitched whine._

_Pain radiates from Aaron's right shoulder and joins the dull throb from his thighs. The stupid duct tape is still over his eyes and Aaron has no clue why the UnSub is counting aloud. He can't remember if this will be Beating Number Sixteen, Seventeen or Eighteen, because they are in a jumbled order in his head._

_"Twenty-one, Aaron." The voice is different. "Twenty-one."_

_His resolve not to panic vanishes as he realizes that the second UnSub has finally decided to make an appearance._

_"Twenty-one, Aaron. Twenty-one."_

_Suddenly, he places the accent. He knows the voice. His heart seizes in his chest as his mind fills in the face that he cannot see. But it doesn't make sense. No sense at all._

"_You don't fit the profile," Aaron whispers as he mentally shifts through the cases he's worked over the years. It's rare for an UnSub to change his MO, especially one _this_ established._

_"Twenty-one, Aaron." The UnSub's breath is on his neck. The knife is against his throat. "Twenty-one."_

"_You don't fit the profile."_

_"Twenty-one, Aaron. Twenty-one."_

"_You don't fit the profile."_

_"Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one."_

_This time, Aaron screams, "You don't fit the profile!"_

_Hands grip his shoulders. He's shaken. Pain shoots through him and suddenly he realizes his hand is free. He swings._

"Hotch! It's Reid! You're safe. You're in the hospital," Spencer's voice broke through Aaron's panic, strong and forceful against the frantic beeps and chirps. "Open your eyes. The tape is gone. Open your eyes!"

The hard squeeze of his shoulders sent another wave of agony through him and he cried out. Immediately, he was let go and only then did the comments register. Aaron forced his eyes open and blinked.

Spencer was leaning half over him, horrified panic flittering across his features as Aaron fell back against the pillows. "I didn't mean to hurt you," the younger man stuttered. "You were having a nightmare."

"Twenty-one," Aaron told him as he frantically looked around the dimly lit room. Flowers and a stuffed panda were on the nightstand. An uncomfortable-looking chair was angled to face the hospital bed, a thick book discarded on the floor. Aaron's mind was fuzzy and he was unsure of why he was almost yelling, "Twenty-one!"

"Hotch? Hotch… _Aaron_… look at me," Spencer ordered urgently. "Look at me." Aaron dragged his gaze to the other man. "It's one-thirteen a.m. on Tuesday. You're in the hospital. Room four twenty-six. You were admitted to the hospital yesterday afternoon at twelve forty-three. Do you understand?" Spencer's cold fingers closed around Aaron's left hand. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Aaron breathed as he stared. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but the dull ache of his body and the clouded feeling made it difficult.

"Tell me your name."

"What?"

"Your name."

"I don't have a concussion."

Spencer insisted, "Your name."

"Aaron Hotchner. I have a brother named Sean, an ex-wife named Haley, and a son named Jack. And I don't have a damned concussion. The UnSub never hit me in the head."

"Except to knock you unconscious," Spencer corrected sourly. He released Aaron and moved to take a step back, but Aaron reached out and caught one of his wrists. Spencer stilled, his gaze traveling from Aaron's hand to his eyes.

"You were there," Aaron said quietly, still unsure of why this was so damn important, "in the basement."

"Yes, I was."

"You were _there_."

"I know," he agreed. "So was Morgan. Morgan was the one who found you. He was the one who—"

"You were _there,_" Aaron insisted.

Spencer cocked his head slightly to the side, his eyes narrowed. His words were slow, delicate almost. "Hotch, I wasn't kidnapped. Embrose didn't hurt me. I was with the team the entire time. Whatever Embrose told you he did to me was a lie."

The name didn't register. Strange, because Aaron could usually remember the UnSubs they have dealt with. "Who the hell is Embrose?"

"The UnSub." Spencer's hand gently wrapped around Aaron's, which was still gripping his wrist tightly. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

Aaron looked off to the side, uncomfortable with how his subordinate was now looking at him. He knew that expression. Spencer had worn it daily in the weeks after Gideon rejoined the BAU after Boston. Worried. Nervous. Hawkish.

"I was abducted outside my home," Aaron finally said. "I got out of my car and..." He closed his eyes, because there was a huge gap from that moment to when, "I woke up gagged and blindfolded, tied to a chair." He swallowed hard, voice tight and hoarse. "Twenty-one. Always twenty-fucking-one."

"Always twenty-one what?" Spencer quietly prompted.

"You were _there_." Aaron glared at him. "You _know_. You _counted._"

"Hotch…" Spencer paused then amended, "Aaron… I need you to tell me what twenty-one means. I know this is difficult..."

"You were _there_."

"Yes. I was there. But you need to tell me what happened. You suffered a mild concussion. While the tox screen came back negative, that doesn't necessarily rule out... other things." He let out a slow breath. "You know the drill, Aaron. Please. Tell me what happened. If you don't want to talk to me, that's okay. Just tell me who you want—"

"Twenty-one. It was always twenty-one." Aaron abruptly let him go, pulling away to cross his arms despite the waves of pain. He stared at the panda, wondering who the hell sent him a stupid stuffed animal. Anger hit, because he _didn't_ want to explain. He also knew that tone of Spencer's, that dogged edge that meant the younger man wasn't going to leave him alone until he got what he wanted. "He started on the right side. Always. Belt. Electrical cord. Bamboo. Water. Switchblade. You and I talked about it. I told you that he was probably left-handed, from a strict Roman-Catholic family that shamed him for not being right-handed."

"He would hit you twenty-one times," Spencer said.

"Yes. Twenty-one hose blasts. Twenty-one buckets of bleach water. For Christ's sake, Spencer, you were fucking there when he gave me the drinking water. You _counted_!" He dialed up his most intimidating look, unsure why he suddenly felt he had to cow Spencer into backing off. "You told me the pattern," he spit out. "Told me to take sips in intervals of threes and sevens. And when I couldn't remember what beating it was, you _knew_. You _told_ me. You told me about piñatas, SWAT tactics, and Camden Yards!"

"Aaron…" Spencer bit his lips together, looked away briefly, and then stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Aaron… we didn't have those conversations. Yes, I was downstairs, but I didn't get—"

"You. Were. There." Snarled. Harsh. Complete with the perfected glare that broke men during interrogations.

Spencer let out a sigh. "Yes. I was there."

_*****/*****_


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

It was the smell of maple syrup and sausage that woke Aaron up. His stomach growled loudly and he shifted, pain rolling through his shoulders and thighs. It was almost enough to destroy the hunger pangs.

"Goddamn it," he muttered as he slid his hand around on the sheets, trying to find the push button for the morphine. He opened his eyes, latched onto the stupid thing, and pressed.

_It's regulated_, he remembered Spencer assuring him. _It plays on the placebo effect_. Only Spencer would understand his hesitation to self-medicate.

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," Dave teased.

Aaron groaned as he glanced over to see his old friend lounging in the chair previously occupied by Spencer. The chirps of the monitors sped up as he looked around the room. The last thing he remembered was—"Where's Spencer?"

"Back at the office, filling out paperwork," Dave answered with a shrug, but Aaron didn't miss the assessing gaze.

"No inter-team profiling," he grouched although he knew it was a moot point.

Dave held up his hands then gestured to two cups of coffee and a bag from McDonald's on the rollaway table. Breakfast. Food. Aaron couldn't remember if he actually _ate_ anything yesterday. Then again, he couldn't quite remember yesterday at all except that Spencer had been there. He fumbled for the bed controls, refusing to hiss aloud but the sharp exhalations were even worse than actually acknowledging the pain.

"You know? You're more pathetic trying to _be_ a Tough Guy," Dave told him matter-of-factly, "than actually admitting you're hurt. Christ. I was never this bad."

"Bullshit," Aaron snapped as the bed finally settled into a sitting position. "Carrollton, Kentucky, 1997. Bullet wounds to the thigh _and _shoulder, but you insisted on walking out under your own power the next morning. You passed out in the backseat of the sedan and puked on the floorboards once you woke up."

"That was because the nurse was a bit too enthusiastic about sponge baths and it was fucking _Carrollton, _Kentucky," he retorted. He got up and pushed the tray table closer to Aaron. "You can order what you want from the menu." Dave held up a piece of paper briefly. "But apparently Reid negotiated for non-hospital food." Dave shook his head as he reached into the bag and pulled out a wrapped sandwich. "Egg McMuffin, no bacon."

"You're supposed to say, 'thank God he uses his powers for good'," Aaron reprimanded. He reached forward, wincing and spitting out a few more curses, before his hand dropped to the sheets. He was tempted to tell Dave to get the hell out so he could eat in peace, but knew it would be futile.

"Oh, don't worry, Aaron," Dave assured him, "I'm thanking God every day. I've seen Reid go into 'bad cop' mode. It isn't a pleasant thing to watch. He makes Derek look like a kitten." He picked up the sandwich, unfolded the paper so that half of it was exposed, and handed to Aaron. He then moved the chair so it was facing the television, grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and sat down.

Aaron realized what Dave was doing, which prompted the sour, "I'm not made of glass."

"You also have more pride than there are lions in Africa," Dave replied as flipped through the channels, finally settling on ESPN.

Aaron scowled. God, he _hated_ when Dave pulled out that line. And while he was momentarily angry, he was also profoundly grateful that, well, he was allowed his dignity. God knows, Haley would have ordered off the hospital menu, cut up everything into manageable bites, and spoon-fed him breakfast.

That thought made him pause, the dread seeping in. Cautiously, "Did you call Haley?"

Dave didn't bother turning around "We didn't see any reason to, Aaron. Not right now." He adjusted the volume on the TV. "Give yourself a few days. I don't think you want to be swearing like a sailor when your son insists on clambering on top of you to make sure you're okay."

"A few days? I'm not planning on being here for a few days."

The other man laughed. "Oh, right. You're going to be demanding your pants next. Look, Aaron, you were in pretty bad shape. You still look like hell. Take it easy."

"Is that why the team is babysitting me?"

"We're just making sure you don't check yourself out before you've been given the all clear. After that stunt you pulled in New York, well… we're on 'Hotch Watch' because we knew you'd be particularly stubborn about your stay."

"Hotch Watch?"

"Yeah. You're lucky it's just been Reid and me so far." He pointed to the stuffed animal on the nightstand. "Garcia has a whole army of fluffy things to cheer you up and she can't wait to give them to you."

"Good Christ."

Dave laughed. "Exactly. Now shut up and eat your sandwich."

/***/


	13. Chapter 13

**Title:** Blackjack

**Author:** Kuria Dalmatia

**Rating/Warnings:** FRM, R (profanity, graphic violence, adult content, torture, profanity, mention of child abuse, frank discussion of bodily functions)

**Pairing:** Hotch, Reid and the BAU

**Summary:** Aaron isn't sure what is worse: being held hostage naked in a basement while being subjected to beatings, or having Spencer dissect his failed marriage in horrifying detail.

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer and comments

/***/

Aaron snapped awake. Or. At least tried to. His mind felt like it was mired in mud. All he knew was that...

The smell was too crisp, too antiseptic.

He couldn't really feel _anything_.

"No," he croaked and stilled when his lips moved and his tongue brushed against his lower teeth. The gag was gone. His mouth was still horrifically dry. There were beeps and clicks and the beeps suddenly went faster and Aaron felt the pure panic settle in because he suddenly didn't know...

"Hotch, it's Reid," Spencer's voice broke in. Cool fingers wrapped around his left hand. "You're safe. You're in the hospital. Room four twenty-six. It's nine thirty-four p.m. on Tuesday. You were admitted to the hospital on Monday afternoon. I'm right here. You're _safe_. You're on morphine for the pain. It's why things are so fuzzy right now."

"Spencer," Aaron breathed, stunned at how one man's voice could trigger such a sense of relief. His eyes finally opened, but everything was shaded in dull grays and fear coursed through him. The beeps kept their rapid tune. He remembered being blindfolded...

_Oh God no!_ He wasn't sure if he said that part aloud.

"Close your eyes and count to ten," Spencer instructed him, voice now strong. "That will help clear your vision. The doctor says there is no permanent damage to your eyesight." Aaron obeyed but his heart still hammered and the beeps kept time. "I'm right here." Spencer squeezed his hand.

Aaron blinked rapidly, trying to even out his breathing but it wasn't quite working. Finally... finally, Spencer came into focus. Aaron then blurted, "You're real."

God, did that sound stupid.

Spencer favored him with a quirky smile. "Yeah. Kind of noticed that."

"You were in the basement with me."

"Yes."

Aaron's mind shifted as sounds echoed in his head and aches ghosted along his limbs. He knew he should be hurting worse, especially his arms. But he kept going back to the simple fact: "You were there."

"Yes." There was another strong squeeze of his hand. "You're safe, Hotch. I swear, you are safe. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Aaron noted the worried look on Spencer's face. Spencer's hair was tucked behind his ears, but looked greasier than normal. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced by his glasses. His tie was loose around his neck, shirt collar askew, and sweater vest horribly rumpled. It was how Spencer Reid looked after pulling several all-nighters.

Guilt slammed hard into Aaron's chest. His breath came in rapid bursts as he fought for control. His eyes drifted close. He felt Spencer begin to move away and he automatically reached out, catching Spencer's wrist. Irrational fear hit him, as if being away from Spencer was the worse thing in the world. He had no idea why he said, "You were there. In the basement."

"Yes. I was," Spencer said quietly. "Would you, ah, like something to drink? There is some, um, ice water on the table."

He nodded, grateful for the other man's thoughtfulness. "Please."

He was even more thankful for how Spencer wordlessly used the controls to adjust the bed so that Aaron was sitting up and then retrieved the Styrofoam cup. When Aaron hissed pain as he tried to raise his arms, Spencer simply held the cup closer with the straw angled so that Aaron had to lean forward just a little to take a drink. It was all done with that 'been there, done that, have the t-shirt' nonchalance that made Aaron wonder just how many times Spencer had done this for his mother.

Aaron took a few sips, swishing the cold water in his mouth before swallowing. "Thank you," he said and then tensed, looking around to see if there was some maniac with a switchblade or bamboo stick lurking in the room.

Spencer put the cup back on the table and said, "I'm going to pull the chair up, okay? I'm not leaving."

It took an extreme amount of willpower to let Spencer go. The stupid beeps happily broadcasted the spike in his heart rate... again. Aaron's hand dropped to the cool sheets and he bit back the sound that threatened to bubble up.

_Morphine,_ he told himself. _Morphine_.

There was the scrape of a chair against linoleum, then Spencer's cool fingers slid across Aaron's knuckles. The relief that hit him was all sorts of wrong. Even worse were the next few words that spilled from his mouth—"What are you reading?"—because Spencer always had a book of some sort. And _Oh God..._ the only way to calm down was to hear Spencer's voice?

"Ah... actually. Um... It's an anthology of British literature." There was lengthy pause, as if embarrassed, before Spencer cleared his throat. "Do you like Shelley?"

For whatever reason, the question made Aaron laugh a little. "As in _Frankenstein_? God. After Mel Brooks, I haven't been able to take it seriously." He quoted, "'It's pronounced, Frawn-ken-shteen.'"

Spencer snorted and then clarified, "Percy Bysshe Shelley, her husband. Did you know he was expelled from Oxford after only six months because he refused to repudiate his and Thomas Jefferson Hogg's collaboration _The Necessity of Atheism_? Also, he wasn't able to correct many of the proofs of his poems, so most of the standard editions include errors and deviations from what were his probable intentions."

"Oh." But just like in the basement, Aaron found himself relaxing, lulled by the sound of the other man's voice.

"_Prometheus Unbound_ and _Ode to the West Wind_ are considered his greatest lyrics," Spencer chatted on. "Personally? I prefer _Mont Blanc_ since it's considered a 'local' poem and resembles Wordsworth's _Tintern Abbey_, which is considered a major influence. Most critics in the mid-twentieth century dismissed Shelley's writing as intellectually immature with incoherent imagery despite Lord Bryon's favorable compliments and Yeats obvious reverence. Yet more recent studies have clarified the complex and coherent structure of his symbolism."

Aaron looked over. He wasn't expecting the curious stare or the slight tilt of the head that meant Spencer was mulling through something... specifically. Specifically Aaron's behavior. Was Spencer merely employing a monologue to judge Aaron's reaction to it?

_Morphine. That's why I'm acting like this_, Aaron tried to tell himself but knew it was a lie.

With one hand, Spencer opened the thick book—a college text by the flimsy paper cover and too-thin pages—and quickly found the entry he wanted. His other hand was still gently settled on top of Aaron's, as if grounding him firmly here in the hospital and to remind him that he wasn't alone. Aaron's eyes watered—damn, they needed to get a humidifier in here—and he swallowed hard.

He knew what he wanted. What he needed. So stupid. So childish. So... unlike him.

But Spencer didn't give him a chance to ask, as he began reading the poem aloud, his voice melodic as the words.

"The everlasting universe of things

Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves

Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom—

Now lending splendour, where from secret springs

The source of human thought its tribute brings..."

And Aaron drifted off to sleep.

_*****/*** Finis ***/*****_


End file.
